The Bridal Season (22 page)

And they didn’t have to stay in Little Bidewell. No one had to
know. They could go away for a few years. She could dye her hair, lose or gain
some weight, work on a different accent, and they could come back here again.

Her breath came rapidly. Her hands clenched in unconscious
supplication.

Maybe there was a future out there somewhere for them.

“I’ve never seen him so utterly nonplussed.”

Letty whipped around at the sound of the male voice. It was
Atticus March, standing quietly beside the window, half turned so she’d not
seen him immediately upon entering, his evening dress so dark his figure was
lost in the shadows.

“Sir?”

He nodded toward the window. “My son. He’s pacing about the
back of the garden.”

“Oh.”

He smiled at her. He was fragile-looking, his tall frame
stoop-shouldered but his face was still handsome. And so like Elliot’s. “You’ve
quite over-set him, m’dear. I do hope you intend to put him out of his misery
soon.”

She regarded him cautiously.

“I hope I haven’t shocked you. I don’t think I have. I have
been watching you, you see, and you don’t seem the sort of young woman who
takes exception to straight talk.”

Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She wasn’t sure so she
remained mute.

“Look for yourself.” He motioned her over to the window. She
went, drawn in spite of herself, and peered down into the garden.

Elliot stood beneath the window. The rising wind whipped his
coattails and ruffled his dark hair. Behind him the sky had darkened to a
velvety black.

Lightning flickered far off on the horizon. A storm was
coming. It would find a kindred spirit in Elliot.

His expression was set, his skin pale in the weak light cast
by the sconces outside the French doors. He was grimly regarding the door
through which she’d run, obviously considering his course. If he came for her,
what would she do?

“Look at the poor devil. Angry. Confused. Disheveled.
Uncertain.” Atticus leaned forward, squinting. “Begads, I do believe he’s
forgotten to do up his top shirt button.” He shook his head. “Let’s hope his
current sartorial obliviousness passes. I doubt the Queen would appreciate her
new baron making his bow with his shirt unbuttoned.”

Queen? Baron?
Atticus was speaking as if she knew what
he was talking about, and she hadn’t a clue.

He regarded her quizzically. “You don’t know, do you? He hasn’t
told you. Forgive me, my dear. I should have guessed he wouldn’t say anything,
but I assumed...” He held out his hand. “What say you give an old man the
pleasure of your company for a few minutes? Over here. Where we can sit.”

He led her to a leather-covered sofa, and after seeing her
seated, lowered himself next to her. “Now, then,” he said, “it isn’t my place
to tell you this, but really it is the poorest kept secret in Little Bidewell.
Anyone could and would tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Letty asked

“That at New Year’s Honors this year, the Prime Minister shall
recommend to Her Majesty that Elliot be created a baron.”

But that meant. . . No. No.

“What if the Queen refuses?” she said. “What if she decides
not to act on the Prime Minister’s suggestion?”

Atticus smiled. “Why ever should she refuse?” he asked. “While
not nobility, March is a venerable and august name. My son’s past is stellar,
his character is unblemished, his associations above reproach, and his career
marked by brilliance. I don’t think she’ll have a problem with his proposed
elevation.” There was no mistaking the pride in his voice.

But all Letty could hear were the words, “his associations
above reproach.”

That had been before he’d become “associated” with a music
hall performer. If the powers that be ever found out about her... She swallowed
the thickness in her throat.

The future that had beckoned so irresistibly dissolved and
vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame, leaving her in darkness. There had
been a slight chance that Sir Elliot could make a future with a music hall
performer. But Lord March couldn’t. Even if Elliot could forgive her her past,
the Queen never would.

She turned to Atticus, her voice tinged with desperation. “He
doesn’t
have
to accept it, does he?”

His brow furrowed. “Well, no. He could refuse the honor,” he
said mildly. “But... he’s worked for years for this opportunity. I don’t see
him letting go of it.”

“But he’s already a knight,” she countered. “That’s
prestigious enough. Being a baron won’t make him any better or worse than he is
now!”

“Of course not,” Atticus said, his gaze troubled but his voice
kind. “But surely... as you know Elliot, you must realize it isn’t the title
Elliot seeks but the opportunity that comes with it.”

She stared at him, dawning understanding making her mute. Of
course.

“As a member of the House of Lords he can rise in the judicial
branch... but you know these things. You must know how important this is to him
and, I am vain enough to believe, to our country.” He patted her hand and
smiled.

“From what I’ve seen of my son lately, he hasn’t exactly
distinguished himself for his eloquence. But one makes allowances for
extenuating circumstances.” He twinkled at her. “You’ll have to take my word
for it, Elliot is a most gifted and persuasive speaker. He is particularly
eloquent on the subject of judicial reform. Before he came back here because of
my illness, he’d made quite a name for himself at the Old Bailey.”

“The Old Bailey?” She’d thought that, except for Elliot’s
years in the Sudan, he’d been in Little Bidewell all his life. “He spent time
in London?”

“A decade,” Anton corrected her.

What a fool she’d been, teasing him about being a country
cousin when all the while—

He regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Elliot once
said that the price England paid in soldiers’ lives could be sanctioned only if
it purchased justice and freedom.” His gaze was piercing. “You
do
understand?
Ambition does not drive Elliot; commitment does. He will achieve a great deal
of good with his title. A great deal of good.” He sank back, smiling proudly.
“Do you doubt it for a minute?”

“No.” She didn’t. Elliot’s innate decency, his integrity, his
determination, his
passion
for justice would be formidable proponents
for good. A wave of pride swept through her. Lord Elliot March, the man she
loved.

Loved. She loved Elliot. Because he was generous and honorable
and decent, qualities she’d doubted existed and so had jeered at as the
products of the weak and sentimental. Because he was gentle toward Elizabeth
Vance and compassionate toward her father. Because he discounted his efforts on
others’ behalves and made it seem that he was receiving when in fact he was
bestowing. Because he never belittled in his conversation or was dismissive in
his replies. Because he was scrupulous in his efforts toward fairness and
patient with those who were not.

But she also loved him because his kisses made her feel hot
and yearning and powerful. Because her body thrummed like a tuning fork
whenever he touched her. She loved him because he was Elliot, unlike any man
she’d ever met or ever would meet again.

Atticus was watching her closely. Then, as if he’d read her
thoughts and knew how much she loved his son, he broke into a puckish,
unexpectedly charming smile. “So, knowing what you now do, exactly what are
your intentions toward my son, Lady Agatha?”

She could have handled that better, too, thought Letty,
hurrying along the hall. She shouldn’t have blurted out, “I don’t have any
intentions!” and bolted like a scared rabbit.

But the intentions she had were not the sort one revealed to
one’s intended lover’s father.
Lover.
Letty had had ample opportunities
to take a lover, but she never had. Because she’d never
loved
before,
never understood what led a perfectly reasonable, intelligent woman to go all
sappy and soft-headed over some man.

Until now.

She knew there was no future for Elliot and her. It didn’t
matter. She wanted to make love with the man she loved. She deserved that much,
didn’t she? There would never be another man like Elliot. She could spend a
lifetime looking for him and she’d never come close to finding his like. Because
no one got that lucky twice in a lifetime. Few women got that lucky once.

But she
had,
she thought fiercely. And she wasn’t going
to throw away one minute of happiness. And minutes were all they’d have.

Seducing Elliot would be difficult but not impossible. She
knew him. He needed to be led to believe— as, being Elliot, he would—that their
lovemaking was just a prelude to their marriage.

Her pace slowed. She stopped, amazed at her own audacity. She
couldn’t. He wouldn’t. She daren’t. What had become of her that she was making
such wild plans?

She felt anguished by how far she’d allowed things to go. Her
head throbbed with too many thoughts and her heart ached. She hated that she
might have caused him pain. She needed to go to him, to steal what moments of
happiness she could. Maybe, in the end, that’s all she really was: a thief.

She looked around as if awakening from a troubled sleep. She’d
made a circle of the lower level and was back where she’d entered the house
from the gardens. People were starting to emerge from the dining room.

She had to find Elliot. That’s all she knew.

A hand clasped her wrist. Letty turned, startled. Angela stood
beside her. “He wants me to meet him at the witch tree tonight!”

“Kip? He isn’t even here,” Letty said, her gaze scanning the
crowd for a dark, elegant head. “His parents offered his regrets to the
Buntings. I heard them.”

Elliot had to be somewhere. He wouldn’t leave his father to
make his way home alone. Was he angry? Disgusted?

“He sent me a message, just before we left,” the girl said.
“He says if I don’t meet him he’ll send the letter to Hugh by tomorrow’s post!
I should deal with him firmly, just as you said I should, shouldn’t I?”

Letty stared unseeingly at Angela’s taut face. She had to know
what Elliot was thinking. He mustn’t believe she didn’t want his love. He
couldn’t.

“Lady Agatha?”

He mustn’t leave without her seeing him. “Yes,” she murmured.

“Really?” Angela insisted.

“What? If it comes to it, yes. But it won’t come to anything
tonight,” she said distractedly. “A storm’s coming.”

“You don’t know him,” Angela whispered, but Letty didn’t hear
her. She’d seen Elliot’s figure and was already hurrying through the crowd.

Storms always make for

good theater.

LETTY MADE HER WAY TO THE FRONT DOOR just as Elliot’s carriage
drove away.

For the first time in her memory she didn’t know what to do.
The play didn’t have a “next act.”

She wandered through the rooms, smiling, murmuring
inconsequentials and moving on, her thoughts wrestling hopelessly with what she
wanted and what she must do. Finally, she grew light-headed with the strain of
the irresolvable situation. She went to find Eglantyne to ask if she might have
Ham drive her back to The Hollies. She found her speaking with the Buntings.

“I’m sorry, Letty,” Eglantyne apologized upon hearing her
request. “Angela had a headache, so Ham drove her home a short while ago. He
hasn’t returned yet and, well, I told him there was no need to hurry back as I
expected we’d be here awhile.”

Angela had left. An itch of anxiety penetrated Letty’s
preoccupation. Her gaze strayed to the window. Rain sparkled on the glass, and
far beyond, in the darkness, she could see a stand of cypress trees snapping
about, lashed by a strengthening wind.

Angela wouldn’t have actually gone out to meet Kip in this?
The memory of the girl’s determined gaze and hard voice came back to haunt
Letty.

“If you’re not feeling well, you must stay the night with us,”
Paul Bunting offered. “Mustn’t she, Catherine?”

“She must,” Catherine agreed woodenly.

“No,” Letty said. “I mean, I couldn’t impose. I have these
little spells, you see, and when I feel one coming on there’s nothing that will
do but that I take my tincture.”

“Tincture.” Catherine nodded eagerly. “I am all in sympathy, m’dear.
I’ve heard that many Society ladies have problems with... excitability.” The
look she shot Dottie Himplerump was smugly satisfied. “You must return to The
Hollies at once. Call for our carriage, Paul.”

Letty thanked her profusely. Let Catherine gloat, she thought;
there were more important matters at hand. She considered telling Eglantyne
about her worry regarding Angela, but thought better of it. If she was wrong in
her suspicions, she would only have succeeded in betraying Angela’s secret.

Best to just go back to The Hollies alone. Angela was probably
tucked into bed already, poor kid.

Ten minutes later, having left Fagin to a doting Eglantyne,
Letty was in the Buntings’ carriage heading down the drive. Driven by a
heightening wind, the rain lashed the carriage roof, the racket deafening.
Letty pulled her cloak tighter, peering out into the churning darkness. They
made slow progress passing over the little bridge that led to the main road.

Off in the distance, illumined by lightning like something in
a fairy-book illustration, she saw the skeletal oak they called the witch tree.
Back of it a quarter mile sat the Himplerump house, while a bit farther up the
road she spotted the formal outline of the Marches’ manor house, the lower
windows glowing through the rain.

He was still up, then. Was he hurt? Or had her running away
from him snapped him back to his senses, and was he even now toasting himself
on his good fortune?

A short time later she stood alone, dripping water in the
great hall at The Hollies. At least Merry had had the courage to let her in
before bolting. But as Letty shed her coat, Merry reappeared, leading a puffing
Cabot and Grace Poole. Both looked awful, their expressions frightened.